The Song of a Nightingale
by SimplyChristine
Summary: Originally done for an English assignment, this descriptive essay deals with Act II, Scene II of the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.


**A/N: Done for an English assignment. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I am not yet deceased. Thank you very much.**

The Song of a Nightingale

Perched on a branch of a pomegranate tree a lone nightingale sang. Her melody was soft and clear. The notes swam through the silent orchard to lap against the ears of young man leaning against the trunk of an oak. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell with a slow and steady rhythm. Was he asleep? No, not asleep, but he was dreaming nonetheless.

He dreamt of _her_. He dreamt of that illusion that had swirled out of the blur of dancers that night, a fairy being in a moss green gown. He dreamt of her twirling and laughing—O, what music to his ears—her skirts swishing gaily to the rhythm of the tambourine. Again and again he traced her lovely figure with his mind's eye.

The young man groaned, and ran a hand through his hair. He would never have her. He would never be able to call her his own. Never, because she was the ancient foe of his house.

He opened his eyes, fearing that he would go mad if he kept thinking of that blessed brow and those velveteen lips. Exhaling heavily he stared wistfully into the greenery. Suddenly he froze. A pinprick of light shone through the branches. Parting the foliage he was greeted by the sight of a sprawling, grey stoned manor. All the windows of this house were darkened, save one open balcony from which that light shone forth. His breath hitched in his chest. Could it be? Could it be that that beam of light came from the lamp of his lady love?

His feet moved on their own, and soon he found himself crouched behind a cluster of rhododendrons but a little away from that very balcony. For a long while he waited, hardly daring to move.

There. There she was. He was lost for words. She was ethereal in her pale white shift, an angel wrapped in a worshipping halo of shimmering moonlight. Her tender, beatific countenance glowed purer than a saint's. Her soft bronze locks, wavering in the slight nocturnal breeze, were her fluttering wings. Her lips parted to issue forth a heaven-send message—alas, he was too far to hear her words.

Eyes fixed upon her, the young man edged slowly closer, until he could see the edges of her nightgown kiss her ankles. It was then that she spoke again.

"Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?"

The maiden listened absentmindedly to the song of the distant nightingale as she slowly brushed out her curls. She stared at her reflection in the ornately carved mirror. Yet she did not see herself. Instead she gazed back into her memory of that night's feast.

Somewhere in the midst of the festivity she had suddenly felt a smoldering stare boring into the back of her head, sending startled shivers down her spine. Turning to find the source of her discomfort, she saw a long, lithe form leaning in a shadowy corner. His soft spun hair gleamed dark gold in the embers of the low fire. The glittering black mask he had donned emphasized his elegant, high cheekbones, and his sharp, aristocratic nose. Seeing her look at him he rose slowly from his bent position, every movement so smooth and suave it made her heart shudder and blood course desperately to her cheeks.

Then she met his eyes, and immediately the room disappeared. She could not move, could not breath, under that hypnotizing gaze which was at once mercurial and cool slate grey. Those silver eyes held her mesmerized with their intense, mysterious quality. Those eyes were like the calm surface of a deep lake, whose intriguing depths seemed to offer something more. "Oh," she whispered dreamily. "I could stare into their depths forever..."

The girl started, and shook herself mentally. What was she thinking? This man...he was one of _them. _He was a sworn enemy of her kin. She had been raised upon stories of their villainy, and she could recite by heart every affront and insult given by that house. To love him was to stain the name of all her most honorable ancestors. Oh, she knew she should never had let him approach her in the first place, let alone allow him to steal her heart with that sweet, sweet kiss...gasping, she leapt to her feet and fled out onto the balcony. The brush clattered onto the floor.

Out in the night air she clutched the railing tightly and willed those thoughts away. "Oh, tempt me not," she pleaded. "Dost thou not know that I cannot love thee?" Yet his face still drifted in front of her, smiling that enigmatic smile.

Morosely, she cupped her cheek in her right hand. A sigh left her lips.

"Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?"

The nightingale's tune glided through the air as the young man unveiled himself from the concealing night. Then it melted into harmony with the molten confessions of the two fervent souls. Love cast its tangling net over the duo, and by its urging the passionate words of their hearts leapt out of their ardent mouths. A loving promise sprung forth from those golden roots and blossomed full and ripe between them.

Both feared that this was but a dream, a beautiful dream, and that any second now they would awake unto the morn—but their linked hands clasped tightly together told them it was not. Both feared a little that the other spoke falsehood—but the other's sincerely devoted gaze and the rapid dance of their hearts assured them otherwise. So onwards they gazed into each other's eyes, drinking in every feature and sound.

When at last the footsteps of her nurse bade them depart, they did so, slowly. The separation was too hard to bear. Gradually, with final caress of a bronze-colored tress and a last, loitering look, and with a drawn out good night lingering upon their lips, she disappeared back into the grey stoned mansion and he into the dark shadows of the trees.

As she laid down upon her pillows, pretending to listen as her nurse gossiped lividly, she thought of him and blushed softly. He, speeding jubilantly down a deserted road, thought of her and broke into a uncontrollable grin.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, they would be linked together for all eternity. Tomorrow, they would be one. Tomorrow, they would be husband and wife. Not Montague or Capulet, but Romeo and Juliet.

In the pomegranate tree the nightingale sang on.

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